


Flashkick

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale in Lingerie (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Dry Humping, Frottage, Lingerie, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Resolved Sexual Tension, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 21:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: “Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Crowley repeated, whispering wetly over Aziraphale’s neck.“I hope it’s bad,” he said, “so you’ll do it.”





	Flashkick

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Эйфория](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26323384) by [bangbangbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangbangbaby/pseuds/bangbangbaby), [fandom Good Omens 2020 (team_Good_Omens)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/team_Good_Omens/pseuds/fandom%20Good%20Omens%202020)

> Please refer to the end notes for content warnings

1969

It was a slow drive, quite uncharacteristic of Crowley. Yes, Aziraphale had told him that he was going too fast only two years prior, but that wasn’t why the Bentley dragged through the wintry London streets like a procrastinating glacier. He just didn’t want to get to the bookshop, not yet. Aziraphale would invite him in for a nightcap, that was certain, but he’d say goodbye after that, and Crowley wasn’t quite ready to part with him.

They’ve spent the better half of the day in Cambridge meeting an elderly lady who had sold Aziraphale a first edition _Hobbit _with sixteen printing errors and green-stained top page edges. (The green stains were important for reasons Crowley had no hope to fathom, even though Aziraphale and the book lady had gushed about them at length over tea).

Aziraphale was appraising the map in the rear endpapers, following the red-black ink of nonexistent rivers with a careful finger, muttering the names of places that never were. The streetlamps pulsed light and dark and light again, giving Aziraphale a flickering halo over his ruffled hair. Crowley should’ve watched the road, but its dull, muddy grey was no competition to Aziraphale’s glinting eyes, his charmed smile. A face Crowley’d been either watching or thinking about for six thousand years; it never lost its novelty.

Aziraphale caught him staring and gave him a routine smile, his gaze unfocused—seeking dragons and misty mountains, not Crowley. Still—his instinct was to smile at him; wasn’t that an achievement, that distracted trust, the unthinking fondness? In that moment, their companionship didn’t seem infeasable. It didn’t feel absurd to smile back, and gently ask, “Happy?”

“Positively ecstatic,” Aziraphale sighed, hugging the book to his chest—gingerly, Crowley noticed. There was something tender yet decidedly fussy in the way Aziraphale held the volume, careful that the melted snowflakes on his camel hair coat wouldn’t cause it any damage. “I haven’t even thanked you for the lift, have I, darling?”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley mumbled. They were in the heart of Soho already, the Bentley dragging through the frozen streets. If he was alone, Crowley would’ve enjoyed giving a fright to the jaywalkers carrying gifts and Christmas trees; now he was busy calculating a route that’d look like a shortcut, but would add ten to forty additional minutes to the drive.

“I should learn how to operate vehicles,” Aziraphale mused, turning back to the book.

“What for? I can drive you whenever.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“You could never—” Crowley blurted, then bit his tongue and added, vaguely, “You’re an angel.”

“Oh dear, if you think angels can’t be bothersome, you should meet Gabriel.” He stroked his neck, distracted. The cashmere scarf rubbed against his bare skin, allowing for a whiff of his scent, clean and warm like sun-soaked feather duvets. Crowley wanted to burrow into it, curl up and die breathing it in. He’d surely discorporate if he was exposed to it for too long, it was so unbearably pleasant—Crowley blessed the cologne Aziraphale used to mask it, which was nice enough but nothing like the beguiling scent of his skin. Crowley wanted to lick it, trace his neck with the tip of his tongue and taste the sunlight, lap it up.

Licking other creatures was something that’d never occurred to him until fairly recently, sometime in the Renaissance when he’d had enough and decided to find out what the whole bloody deal with sex was that made a handful of humans so obsessed. He never caught on, because as soon as he Made an Effort, his desire for Aziraphale trampled him down like a herd of horny gnus. He’s been in love with him since the Beginning, but attraction was a new and bewildering thing. For those humans who felt it, it seemed easy: they could just purchase relief in a respectable establishment like the one the Bentley just drove past, or earn the privilege of their lover’s affection through the repeated offers of small favours, material objects, praising words, lingering touches or the mere promise of a good shag.

Crowley was utterly disinterested even in the best of shags if it wasn’t with Aziraphale. These days, he was lucky if he got a firm handshake. Times were a-changing, and pecks on the lips, warm embraces and holding hands with your friends were _passé_.

Crowley had a tendency to do some mental gymnastics and jump from A to Z in a blink, but even he could admit that getting from the occasional brush of hands to a honeymoon in Paris was a stretch.

But then—_then _Aziraphale told him he was going too fast. Which meant that Crowley had no current prospect of romance, but that there _would _be time for it, and he’d just have to wait until Aziraphale deemed it safe to be seen in the Ritz together. Crowley convinced himself that his head wouldn’t explode clean off his shoulders if they perhaps kissed.

(Crowley wasn’t convinced he _wouldn’t _explode, but he was willing to take the risk.)

They had all the time in the world, and Crowley was ready for the space age. By the time humanity had moved on to Mars, he’d have sucked cock. That was something to look forward to.

“I think you might’ve taken the wrong turn,” Aziraphale said, pointing out the mistake with a finger. Crowley stared at his hand until he was cross-eyed.

“It’s the scenic route,” he managed.

Aziraphale gave him a knowing look. Crowley just couldn’t guess _what _he knew. “Would you care for some cocoa when we get home?” he asked conversationally as he turned away, surveying the map once again. “We could even get rowdy,” he suggested with a wiggle. “How about hot chocolate with a dash of rum in it?”

“Let’s get rowdy,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, and turned the wheel. He could see Aziraphale’s smug little smile from the corner of his eyes.

Maybe he was just happy about the hot chocolate.

*

They stepped into the bookshop’s welcoming warmth: the cast iron fireplace was cackling cheerfully, and filling the space with an orange glow and the scent of burning wood. Open fire in a bookshop—that was asking for trouble, in Crowley’s humble opinion, but he didn’t dare to remind Aziraphale. Not putting two and two together probably kept him sound: as long as he didn’t _believe _the fireplace to be a safety hazard, it’d keep itself in check.

“Gotta love the heating,” Crowley announced maybe just a tad too loudly as he shimmied out of his fur-collared peacoat. He was wearing his favourite glittery velvet jacket underneath, which didn’t escape Aziraphale’s notice.

“Heading somewhere?” he asked as he took Crowley's coat like a proper gentleman. Crowley looked down at his shiny cavern boots, which were leaving muddy prints on the hardwood floor. A disapproving glare fixed that. The reprimanded boards all but sparkled.

“Odeon on Leicester Square,” he mumbled. He clicked his heels to the ground to check that they were properly dried.

“What’s screening?”

“There’s an, er, new James Bond film. _On Her Majesty's Secret Service_.”

Aziraphale gave him an impressed look as he hung up their coats. He was wearing a cable knit turtleneck with a blazer he got in the forties. He looked adorable, cuddly; Crowley wanted to walk up to him, embrace him from behind, squeeze his soft tummy and bury his face in his nape. He wouldn’t want it to be their first hug in recent memory, though; one had to be careful. Careful not to get too close.

He strolled to the fireplace, hands in his pockets, and stared into the fire through his sunglasses.

“This film,” Aziraphale said, “are you in it?”

“Why would I be?”

“You’ve worked with—”

“We’re not discussing the MI6.” Crowley gave one last threatening glare to the fire, reminding it to behave itself, then glanced at Aziraphale, who was fretting with his hands, with that look on his face that told Crowley he was too anxious to speak. He didn’t mean to shut him up, but an explanation would make the misunderstanding worse, an apology would only embarrass him; he settled on, “It’s in stereo.”

Aziraphale’s hands stilled, and he looked at Crowley with cautious curiosity. “What’s _that _supposed to mean?”

“The sound follows the actors on screen. And when someone is sneaking up to Bond or something, you hear it from behind.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in bewilderment. “How on Earth do they do that?”

Crowley shrugged, and ran a teasing finger over the front hearth. “You could see it for yourself. Hear, I mean.”

Aziraphale shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Come with me,” Crowley asked. No pleading: a take-it-or-leave-it deal. He met Aziraphale’s gaze through his shades, tried to stay stoic, jaw firm, lips stiff. He couldn’t say: _please be my date. _

_James Bond films are fantastic, I want to share them with you. _

_Please, it’s not the bloody Ritz. _

_It’s just a film. _

_Please? _

“Well,” Aziraphale said, fretting with his hands again, “do we still have time for a drink?”

Crowley blinked (for the first time in about a hundred years) and said, very slowly, “Right on.”

“Splendid.” Aziraphale nodded to himself, and headed for the drink cabinet. Crowley stared after him. It wasn’t what he was expecting. He was sure he’d be refused. He just wanted to hear that Aziraphale was sorry about it, wanted to hear him say,_ oh, I wish_.

He watched him grab a bottle of Flor de Caña and pour two generous glasses. No chocolate was added.

Crowley glanced at the grandfather’s clock in a dim corner, then out at the darkening streets. They didn’t have time to get sufficiently pissed. If Aziraphale’s plan was to drink himself brave, he’d need more than rum.

“Cheers,” Aziraphale said, handing Crowley his usual crystal glass. He pulled close to the fire, and consequently, closer to Crowley—his shoulder nearly bumped into him. They’d find a way so that one day Crowley could wrap an arm around his hips—maybe rub his back—caress his arse. No, that was probably too much; humans didn’t do that until they were dating for like, what, a fortnight? You had to date someone for a while to get to the arse-stuff, right?

(They’ve been in love for longer than any of them remembered. They’d always have 1941. What did it _mean_, Crowley wondered. What did it _make _them?)

He hooked a thumb into Aziraphale’s belt loop, pretending to be preoccupied with his drink. Sure. Okay. They won’t be able to have an open relationship until Heaven and Hell learnt to chill. They’d have to be careful about public meetings, and even more cautious about a private rendez-vous. You can excuse being in the same park as the enemy; you can’t excuse fisting. Anyway, you probably had to be married for fisting.

(Were they married? Or were they just associates? Were they _married _associates?)

“I, ah,” Aziraphale said, the glass’s rim pressed to his lips, “I shall get changed if we’re to go out, shan’t I?”

He gave Crowley a look that implied that they’ve been happily married, with six beautiful kids and more on the way.

“Hgk,” Crowley said, tugging on Aziraphale’s pressed trousers, because he just didn’t know what to _do _with his hands. “Y’re pretty. I mean, you look fine. Okay. Tolerable. For the Odeon.”

“I wouldn’t want to be conspicuous,” Aziraphale said, in that tender voice he sometimes used, the one that did things to Crowley’s skin, made it feel too tight, too hot, like a straitjacket: he wanted to tear it off, burst out of his human form. His wings were _itching _with Aziraphale so close to him. “We couldn’t risk being noticed. I’d have to be decent.”

“Decent. Yes,” Crowley said, with some very indecent ideas involving feathers and grooming.

“So,” Aziraphale reasoned, touching the glass to his chin, his eyes gleaming, “I’d have to change my clothes.”

Crowley wasn’t following. He couldn’t be. Aziraphale couldn’t be implying—

“Need help?” he asked, just in case. It could go two ways: one, Aziraphale could gently enlighten him that his boudoir was off-limits so he should dress alone; or two, he could call for his valet (and then remember he no longer employed one).

“Yes,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley broke his glass.

*

Aziraphale’s bedroom upstairs could have made any flower child weep with envy. It was bohemian with vintage charm and Asian touches from his travels. The sensual glow of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling made Crowley wish that the king-sized bed overflowing with pillows would see some use—but he didn’t dare to hope. Aziraphale, after all, was pointedly headed to his uncompromising and massive mahogany dresser, and pulling out _more _articles of clothing instead of getting rid of the ones clinging to his frame.

“What do you think? Just don’t say a suit, I can’t stand the modern cut—how bland, how boring.” Aziraphale chatted easily; much too easy, in fact—his manner reminded Crowley of Aziraphale’s conduct when they were in company. “There! What’s this? Oh, yes—I suppose it would be appropriate?”

Crowley lingered by the door, and gave a dirty look to the threadborne beige waistcoat Aziraphale held up for inspection.

“_That_ one?” he asked.

“It’s a ‘go-to piece,'” Aziraphale explained, pronouncing the modern phrase with delight. “My favourite.”

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled. “You got it from Oscar, huh?”

Aziraphale furrowed his brows, absent-mindedly caressing the waistcoat as he peered at Crowley. “It was a rather lovely gift,” he said aloofly, “but it’s my favourite because I was wearing it for the bombed church.”

Crowley couldn’t reply; just watched Aziraphale lay the waistcoat on the bed, his mouth open. Sure, he hauled a fucking statue home as a souvenir to mark the occasion, but the bloody waistcoat—it was worn to _bits _already; Aziraphale was really fond of it; if he was that fond of the _waistcoat_, it would mean—

(_What else did you think it meant?_ he asked himself. _What does he wear it with? The pocket watch you got for him, idiot, and that’s in perfect condition, because he takes good care of it. There’s two ways to love something: to the brink of destruction and with tender concern. He loves you both ways. He’s loved you always. Why must you act surprised?) _

“Anyhow,” Aziraphale said, shrugging off his blazer, “one must start at the beginning.”

(_I’m not made to be loved._)

“A little help here, darling, please?”

Crowley crossed the room for him. Would’ve crossed seven seas. Not made to be loved, yes; it had become part of the Arrangement that they wouldn’t mention affection; but Aziraphale promised—_you go too fast for me_—that one day, one glorious day—

The Ritz...a picnic...a proper date…

A drive home, and then…

Crowley helped him out of the blazer. Aziraphale wasn’t facing him.

_Maybe it isn’t about time_, Crowley mused. _It’s not six thousand more years until we can risk it. Maybe it’s about the right moment. Seizing it for ourselves. _

The blazer dropped to the ground, abandoned. Crowley leant closer, breath caressing Aziraphale’s nape, where his fair hair curled over it. So radiant; so clean.

“You smell amazing,” he said, eager lips brushing against the exposed skin. He waited for Aziraphale’s response, a helpless little gasp.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, high-pitched. “What do I smell like?”

“Like—amazing things,” Crowley said, making him chuckle. Aziraphale’s laughter made him grin in response, embarrassed, hopeful. Aziraphale reached back for Crowley’s hands; guided them to the turtleneck’s hem.

“You promised you’d help,” he whispered.

“You sure it’s a good idea?” Crowley whispered back, dropping his voice to a deep, delicious timbre, thick and sweet like molasses. The voice he used to tempt; but the question was honest, and so was Aziraphale’s response, who grinded his soft arse over Crowley’s crotch. Just a cant of his hips; like he couldn’t help it.

Crowley splayed his hand over Aziraphale’s stomach, pulled him back. Rubbed his cock on him: he was hard in his trousers, was getting erections on the _regular _since he learnt how to desire, and he wanted Aziraphale to know that: that he was wanted this way—not just in that moment, not just that day, but that Crowley’s been _craving _him.

That he could wait.

“Are you _sure _it’s a good idea?” he repeated, whispering wetly over his neck. Aziraphale put his palms over Crowley’s hands.

“I hope it’s bad,” he said, “so you’ll do it.” He craned his neck to look at Crowley. The angle was awkward; he couldn’t manage.

Crowley let go of him and stepped back. Pushed up his sunglasses, demon-eyes exposed. He needed Aziraphale to look into the depth of them when he said yes. See eternal damnation reflected.

“I want you,” Aziraphale said, wretched.

“You want me now,” Crowley said as gently as he could. “Will that be enough of an excuse tomorrow?”

It was rare for Aziraphale to raise his voice. He did it now. “For goodness’ sake, I wanted you since you were a _snake!_” he hissed, and yanked off the turtleneck with determination. “I couldn’t explain it then, even to myself; I was pulled to you insolubly, but wholly—”

“Is that a bodice?” Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale was _evidently _wearing a bodice.

It was lacey and everything. White. Satin.

“As a matter of fact, it’s called a bodysuit,” Aziraphale said, a tad offended that his speech has been cut short, but Crowley couldn’t help himself. Aziraphale was wearing a lingerie...thing. It continued into his trousers. Crowley wanted to tear off those trousers in that _instant_. He just stood frozen. It was the single most erotic thing he’d _ever—_

Damn it. Did he come? Fuck. Maybe he came just seeing it.

(But, on second thought; no; he knew enough about orgasms based on his solo endeavours to conclude that the stickiness was unavoidable, and he was dry as the Sahara, just achingly hard. Maybe a confident spot of pre-ejaculate, but nothing like that _flood _he managed to summon whenever he was alone and let his mind linger on Aziraphale’s wrists for too long.)

“It’s my point,” Aziraphale said, dropping the discarded turtleneck to the bed.

“It is?” Crowley repeated stupidly. Blasted heavens: Aziraphale’s broad back was a sight for lingering eyes.

Aziraphale sullenly followed his clothes to bed, sitting on the edge in his bodice and well-ironed trousers. He undid his belt with a miserable face, and explained, “I’ve been wearing lingerie since 1941. I know, I know—it’s silly. Nevertheless, I love imagining that at the end of our meetings, you get to see it. You take me home, and we _make _dinner, watch the telly, or listen to records, perhaps, have sex. Things that couples do.” The buckle clunked on the floor. Aziraphale put his elbows over his knees, head hanging low, defeated.

“You’ve been wearing lingerie all these years,” Crowley said slowly, “because you loved imagining that we’d be in the sort of relationship.”

“I _said _it was silly,” Aziraphale interjected, and dismissively waved his hand. “It’s the yearning.”

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, sputtering for words.“The _yuh-nuhng_,” he repeated.

“The thrill of it. I can feel the delicate touch of the lace, but not yours.”

“You can just_ tell me_ if you ever fancy a shag. Y’know. I’d be, er, _much _obliged.”

Aziraphale scrunched up his face, but his pupils were blown wide. “No need to be crass.”

“I’d just like to be informed when I’m secretly on a date with you,” Crowley said miserably. “Is _this _a date?”

Aziraphale blinked, and looked away. “Can’t say.”

“Why?”

“Because if we start dating, they might—” He swallowed back the rest, calmed himself with a steady breath. “You know neither Hell nor Heaven would _ever _excuse what I feel for you. What you—”

“I know,” Crowley said, and pulled closer to the bed. “I don’t _care_.” 

Aziraphale got to his feet promptly, and managed to stare him _down_, even though he was a couple inches shorter, wearing that cute, frilly affair. His undone trousers started sliding down his stocking-clad legs; Crowley couldn’t decide if it was comical or enticing, and whether it diminished Aziraphale’s stern menace. “Oh, we could get away with a date or two,” he said seriously. “We could indulge in the most outrageous debauchery or acts of divine, holy love, and nobody would care to check, but that’s not _good enough _for me.” He walked towards Crowley, stepping out of his trousers. “With you, I want to play the long game.”

“With me, you don’t have to play games,” Crowley said softly. Aziraphale looked far too alluring, his darling face determined, the bodice highlighting his enticingly soft stomach, his powerful thighs, thick arms: there was so much strength in his fluffiness—sometimes Crowley looked at him and thought, _he could make Heaven and Hell back the fuck off_.

Angels were terrifying, the same way a tornado or a black hole were: that beautiful horror, that righteous destruction. Aziraphale’s eyes were burning when he reached for Crowley, and he could see a shadow of wings, his flaming halo, too-long limbs and opaque skin, a sublime being crouched inside a human body.

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s lapels, and pulled him down for a kiss. Neither of them opened their mouth, but Crowley still whimpered. Aziraphale’s lips moved against his so easily, as if he didn’t have to think about it—as if they didn’t spend the last thousands of years trying to find a way to make it work, to make it even remotely _possible—_

“I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. If we started to date, there would be no holding me back,” Aziraphale whispered against his tingling lips, voice strained.“If you were mine, I’d spoil you.”

Crowley dipped down to kiss into his neck, hear him moan, feel him grasp his back. “Say that again.”

“Dear boy, I’d spoil you,” Aziraphale said, breathless.

They stumbled to the bed, clinging to each other. They fell back in a heap, Aziraphale’s creamy thighs bracketing Crowley’s hips. He lapped at his neck again, the tip of his tongue tracing its graceful line. “How?”

“Any way you’d want,” Aziraphale panted, grabbing two fistfuls of his velvet jacket. “That’s the fact of the matter , you can’t expect me to be superficial about it. I can’t just kiss you, then not see you for a decade. Oh, I couldn’t live, I couldn’t live—”

“How would you spoil me,” Crowley purred, “if you _could_?”

He licked his throat with a forked tongue—it was easy to transform, easier than staying entirely human. He felt Aziraphale getting hard, his erection pressing against his own. It made him light-headed: he was wanted, he was so _wanted—_

“If I were free to do it,” Aziraphale told him, “I’d be your date always, accompany you to the Odeon, and those dreadful rock-and-roll concerts. We’d walk in the parks without checking over our shoulders; we’d hold hands—”

Crowley grabbed his hand, as if instructed; squeezed it, and Aziraphale’s hips bucked. His cock rubbed against Crowley’s, the taut satin over it sliding against Crowley’s trousers smoothly. Crowley gasped at it and stilled. Aziraphale looked at him with a curious face, nudged at him insistently.

Crowley didn’t get his meaning until he was manhandled to his back. He felt like the air was knocked out of his lungs. Aziraphale nestled between his spread legs; he fit there so well as if he _belonged _there—still: it was unexpected that he’d bear down, press his cock to Crowley’s loin, drag it over him so slow Crowley could feel every hot inch of him burning through the satin.

“I’d do _exactly _this,” Aziraphale told him. “I’d make love to you whenever you asked me. Show you every pleasure known to men.”

“I knew you’d fucked around,” Crowley said. This was his last resort: if he focused too much on Aziraphale fucking him through his clothes, he’d dissolve. He was a mess as it was: trembling and sweating, too big for his narrow body. His wings, hidden away in another dimension, were thrashing widely. A sharp thrust, and his head rolled back, mouth open to a silent O, teeth too sharp and narrow.

“A gentleman never tells,” Aziraphale said judiciously.

“Tell me I’m the only one who matters.” Crowley’s chest heaved; it felt like it was caved in, felt like he couldn’t breathe. Aziraphale’s scent was all around him, stronger than ever, his body given over for Crowley’s singular pleasure. He used it in every way he dared: humping him like a wild thing in heat, clawing at his broad back, pulling him closer. He caught a strip of the bodice between his trembling fingers, and pulled at it, as if threatening to tear off the bloody thing if he got the wrong answer.

“Do I have to tell you—don’t you know?” Aziraphale said, vaguely shocked, somewhat amused. He could never settle on just one emotion. A being of feelings, overflowing with love or worry, whatever he was experiencing. His lust, too, was immense: the very picture of seduction with his blushed cheeks, hungry eyes, hair mussed up and the other strip of the bodice sliding down a round shoulder. He fucked relentlessly, with an impeccable sense of rhythm Crowley would’ve never accused him of. His fumbling, fussy angel was revealed to be an expert in the excess of love. He couldn’t say he was surprised.

“Tell me anyway,” Crowley asked. Made it sound like he didn’t particularly care. Didn’t succeed: his voice was a whiny growl, breath hitching with every luxurious roll of Aziraphale’s hips.

“_Doubt thou the stars are fire_,” Aziraphale quoted, making him groan. “_Doubt that the Sun doth move—_”

“Yeah, yeah,_ doubt truth to be a liar_,” Crowley added. Aziraphale dipped down for a kiss on his nose, the innocent gesture so at odds with the demanding press of his cock, that urgent friction.

“_But never doubt I love_,” he finished, and sealed it with another tight-lipped kiss. “You’ve gifted me _Hamlet_; a cornerstone of literature—did you think I’d be ungrateful?”

Crowley looked at him, slightly cross-eyed, his gaze flicking over his flushed face. “Then kiss me like you mean it,” he said.

Even then, he wasn’t sure his wish would be met. There were a thousand excuses, half of them even acceptable, _reasonable_. He was motionless as Aziraphale cupped his face, looked into his eyes like he could see his infernal soul, the dim, dark glow of it, how wretched it was, how pathetic; and he kissed him. Licked into his mouth, drank up his sobs, and kept moving against him, kept wanting him back. He put his forehead to Crowley’s when he pulled back, and beamed at him brightly.

“When you’re mine, I’ll kiss you every day,” Aziraphale told him. He looked so thrilled: looked like he believed it was a possibility.

Crowley smiled back, but his lips trembled. “What, make me wait an entire day?”

“Now now, don’t get greedy, darling,” Aziraphale chided him, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Crowley closed his eyes: Aziraphale kissed them too.

“‘Am not the greedy one,” Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale pushed his russet hair back over his forehead, let his fringe fall into place between his fingers as his erection slid against Crowley’s, unremitting.

“Can you fault me for wanting you absolutely? You’ve earned my utter admiration. I can’t settle for anything less than what you deserve.”

Crowley buried his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, who chuckled at the shy gesture. Crowley wasn’t exactly being bashful: Aziraphale had no idea, not a single clue what his praise amounted to, his appreciation, how it gave Crowley’s life a _point_.

(Once upon a time, when time wasn’t even created yet, his purpose was to please God: he’s failed that. He could’ve worshipped Satan, but Lucifer was just another angel, small-minded like the rest of the wankers. His new religion was love: this, right here, Aziraphale’s groin pressed against his, hearts beating in sync, this was a baptism.)

He had a vague mission of tempting humankind and helping bring on Armageddon. He took pride in his job, but the joy of it was incomparable to earning Aziraphale’s esteem.

He moved against him as if to prove, _I can be good for you, I can be wicked_. His whole body followed the rhythm Aziraphale set as he ran teasing fingers over the bodice, gripped two handfuls of Aziraphale’s buttocks and squeezed.

He’d take everything—everything that was given—be it this, or just a smile, a handshake. It didn’t matter, as long as Aziraphale would have him.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. It was too much to hear his name pronounced like this, falling from Aziraphale’s kiss-swollen lips, his breath catching.

Crowley whined and pulled him down, pulled him close, urging for more, more, more, gripping his jiggling arse as Aziraphale’s hips snapped forward one more time. Crowley’s orgasm blossomed out: it wasn’t the lightning-strike following a spot of angry wanking, but a cautious bloom, like a flower soaking up the intoxicating beams of the sun. It swept over him gradually, starting from his straining groin until the flourish reached every limb. He made no sound but a hiss that sounded, vaguely, like Aziraphale’s name.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said, cupping his face once again with one hand. Crowley couldn’t open his eyes: they’d be all yellow now, overcome, perhaps even wet, and he was simply not the sort of demon who cried during sex. Aziraphale helped his reputation by kissing away a tear.

“Keep going,” Crowley rasped. Aziraphale rolled him to his side, their legs tangled. He rubbed against Crowley’s, caught between his own. Crowley looked over him: his curled toes in the silk stockings, the garter, the bodice: so pretty, just for Crowley, just on the off-chance he might get to see, that there’d be an impossible evening like this. He caressed the satin reverently, felt the wires, the hot flesh beneath with Aziraphale’s little gasps in his ears and his thoughts drifting. Perhaps there was no Heaven or Hell in that moment, and they were not an angel and a fallen creature. They might’ve been human, or something beyond that, their very own species they made from the mud of their essence, the spit of a kiss, and named it _us_, a four-winged being with eyes yellow and blue, born of a forbidden union.

Aziraphale rocked against him, his movements increasingly more erratic, and Crowley held him through it, utterly spent. He touched Aziraphale’s face to commit it to memory. Touch, sight, sounds, tastes, smells: he wanted to remember. He needed to steal these moments away and stock them for the lonely nights that would follow. This evening was all they’d get to have, he was all too aware.

Aziraphale peered at him through dark lashes, and sucked on his fingertips—one and then the other, tasting his skin.

“Next time,” Crowley said, “we’ll explore this oral fixation of yours, huh?”

Aziraphale gasped and shuddered. Encouraged, Crowley leant to his ear, breathing in his warm scent, relishing in his heat. “I’ve noticed,” he said slowly, “the tablecloth at the Ritz. Reaches the floor. Nobody would notice if you dipped down for dessert.”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale said, in a very different tone than previously: exasperated, bewildered, but also, undeniably, fond. “Really, the filth you say!”

Crowley rubbed his thigh over Aziraphale’s cock, stroking it in a mock-apology as he said, “I’m just asking you _veeery _kindly to suck my cock, please.”

Aziraphale whined softly, grabbed for Crowley. He came clutching his arms, hard enough to bruise: Crowley wouldn’t miracle the marks away. He kept talking, his voice smooth despite how he felt his chest swell, his heart spill, how he was, once again, close to bloody tears. “Wouldn’t have to be the Ritz. I’m not fancy. I _will _cash in on that promise, but I’m fine with a picnic. Back to the garden, eh? Even the cinema—y’know, it’s quite dark.”

Aziraphale’s head shot up; consequently, he headbutted Crowley’s jaw. “The cinema!” he cried miserably. “Oh, Crowley, I made you miss the film!”

He looked the very picture of guilt and remorse, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was an angel still trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm, clutching his demon lover.

Said demon lover had fallen for him again.

“Do you honestly think I give a shit?” he asked, astonished.

“Language,” Aziraphale muttered, and buried his face into Crowley’s chest. He gently rolled to his back to give him better access, and Aziraphale took the cue to curl up to him. There was a faint tingling sound, and the scent of ozone: he’d miracled their underwear clean. “It’s a spy film,” he complained. “You _love _those.”

“Yeah, I love you more,” Crowley said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Aziraphale peered at him with an unreadable expression.

“It’s the first time you’ve said that,” he muttered.

“Nah. I say it all the time. Just not with words.” Crowley nuzzled his hair. He still smelt of sex. Crowley grinned to himself. It was an expression far too soft for a fiend frolicking with the enemy.

“I suppose you could watch a re-run,” Aziraphale said, as if to convince himself.

Crowley hummed, non-committal. He didn’t care too much for the film. It didn’t have Connery in it. He’d written an angry letter to the producers about it. It had complimentary maggots in it.

“I’m afraid it’s up to you to entertain me now,” he said leisurely, which was impressive, given that his heart was throbbing in his throat. It was a miracle he could even speak. With a snap, he exchanged his attire for black silk pyjamas. Aziraphale frowned, more confused than judgemental.

“Are we having a sleepover?”

“Gosh, I hope you’re not the kind of chap to kick your boys out,” Crowley said as he nestled to him.

“Not this boy, no,” Aziraphale said. Crowley bowed his head, relying on his hair to hide his flushed face. It wasn’t long enough, but it should suffice. Aziraphale cuddled him properly, pulling him into a perfect, warm embrace. Say what you want about angels, they gave the best hugs in the universe. Pity none of them indulged in it, just this big softie who’d given his sword away and protected a fallen angel from the rain.

“Would you like me to read to you?” Aziraphale offered with a timid edge, as if he was afraid Crowley would find it ridiculous, or boring. Rather silly of him, really. Anything Crowley associated with him was nothing short of breathtaking.

He flicked at a lace detail on the bodice, and said casually, “How could I refuse such an offer?”

“I’m sure I left_ The Hobbit_ here somewhere,” Aziraphale said with stubborn conviction. Crowley gaped at him. A miracle of this kind, transforming an object as if it’d always been there was incredibly difficult and taxing: but Aziraphale produced the volume from the nightstand with ease, just because he wanted to share it with Crowley. Damn the sneaky bastard—he was determined to make Crowley cry yet. Crowley clung to his neck, and Aziraphale read, voice resonating in Crowley’s chest, “_In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit_.”

Crowley closed his eyes, and thought about a hole in the ground, or any sorry shelter they could share, and be themselves. A place where Aziraphale would be free to love him. Their own home; perhaps a cozy little cottage, overlooking the sea. It had to exist, somewhere in time, somewhere in place. It was waiting for them.

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warnings:** it’s implied that Aziraphale had past flings with humans / bodily transformation: brief description of wings, sharp teeth, non-human anatomy / sudden mention of graphic sex act (Crowley thinks about fisting in passing) 
> 
> **Flashkick** (_British mod slang, 1960s_) - A delightful experience, a giddy thrill
> 
> Many thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for beta'ing the fic!
> 
> You can [reblog the story](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/187623992641/flashkick) if you like 💕


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